Despite the heavy gray,
the ceaseless wet,
on the ship’s bow,
she giggles at Puffins
floating like tribes of witless toys.
I tell the jokes in this family.
And delight.

And equally,
stand amazed
when the Great Blue Heron takes flight
close enough to hear
the moment of lift off from ground to sky.

Now the yard is unremarkable.
The feeder hangs motionless.
The warblers are silent.
Even the lowly finches have vanished.
The cry of the Chickadee is far off.
Many miles away.
My mother’s laugh.
Birds!
Gone.

The Red-Shouldered Hawk taunts me now.
Three times he dazzles
with a show of his stripes.

In the high black trees,
vultures keep silent vigil.
A colony of shrouded lepers
on bare branches.

It is certain,
even a heart swelling with
forgiveness cannot stop
hollow bones from replacing the ripening breast.

Now, I wear the heavy boots.
Pour the thistle gently.
Watch the light being replaced by shadows
in my face.
Breast turning east and west under nappy scarlet.
Close enough to hear
the moment of lift off from ground to sky.

Cynthia Woodring is an undergraduate in Mary Baldwin College’s online degree program. Originally from Long Island, she currently lives in Charlottesville, VA, and when she’s not writing, Cynthia is engaged in her passion: teaching yoga.